


Shahryar

by rei_c



Series: Storyteller 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-16
Updated: 2006-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tells stories. Storyteller!verse, from Jess' perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shahryar

_Tell me a story,_ she says, and lays her head down on his lap. He smells like something she doesn’t recognize and his hand runs through her hair, weaving careful through twisted tendrils. That has something to do with it, with what she doesn’t understand: the care, the gentleness. She tilts her head, bares her throat, and his fingers, worn and callused, stroke the skin as he talks, as his voice covers her. _In 1556, the queen’s men killed a father, in front of his children, because he was a Protestant. With his dying breaths, he cursed the men and the queen they served, and his daughter screamed when he fell to the ground._

\--

Jess sees him across campus the first week of school. She’s walking to her dorm and he’s playing basketball, just a pick-up game but a rough one, and he doesn’t have to jump high for a slam dunk. She stops, listens to him laugh, watches his hands engulf the basketball, and feels her heart skip a beat. She goes back to her room and tries to focus on a pointless essay, keeps seeing his face in every line of text. 

\--

_Tell me a story,_ she demands, leaning over and resting her head on his shoulder. _The movie’s gonna start in two minutes, Jess,_ he says, and she pokes him between the ribs, mutters, _Well, make it a quick one, then._ He thinks, then says, _A Sioux tribesman went into the mountains on a hunt,_ and then the film starts. He ruffles her hair, whispers, _I’ll finish it later._

\--

She runs, early in the morning, uses the time to wake up, to think, to get ready for the day. It’s Thursday, she has midterms next week, two classes today, and her roommate’s left for the weekend already. The air out here by Lake Lag is cooler, but it’s still warm and she’ll be glad to take a cold shower when she gets back. Jess stumbles on a rock, or a branch, something, and expects to hit the ground but doesn’t. There’s a hand on her elbow, gripping on this side of painful, and when she steadies, the hand lets go. Jess turns and smiles as the basketball player—Sam, she’s found out—steps back, wipes off his forehead. _I’m Sam,_ he says. _You okay?_ His voice is perfect. _I am now,_ she replies, and he laughs and keeps perfect rhythm with her around the rest of the trail.

\--

_Tell me a story,_ she says, and he laughs, says, _Only if you make cookies_. His face is so honest, so open, and yet his eyes, those crinkled-up cat’s eyes, are so far beyond closed as to be dark, shuttered. Storyteller’s eyes, she once called them, and he’d laughed then, as he does now. _You talk, I’ll bake_ , she offers, and he takes her hand, kisses the knuckles one by one, licks the hollows between. _Deal._

\--

Jess isn’t sure how it starts, or how long it takes, but by Christmas, she’s enthralled. The way he walks doesn’t fit him, as if he’s sliding around everyone and everything, not slouching but somehow invisible, fading into the background, and the way he sits and reads for hours, hunched over and taking notes without looking at what he’s writing. When he talks, though, when he laughs, it’s different, like this is the way to his heart, listening to and understanding the tones, the inflections, the pauses, what he says and what he doesn’t, how he changes the subject or answers just enough or goes on for long minutes without breathing. Jess calls him every other day while she’s at home, listens to him tell her about his day, and just the sound of his voice, cracked and crackling, makes things better, no matter how she feels, what she’s done, what’s happened. 

\--

_Tell me a story, Sam. The one you tell all the babies,_ and Sam says, _But you’re not a baby, Jess,_ as he cups her breast. She flicks his nose and argues back, _And you’re a knight, not a librarian, but you’re still the best storyteller I’ve ever met._ She doesn’t understand the look in his eyes, but then he says, _Once upon a time, there was a wizard who lived in the middle of a forest, only his chickens and the trees for company,_ and the look doesn’t matter anymore. 

\--

Her sister has a baby girl over Easter weekend and Jess takes a couple days off of school, skips classes to meet her new niece. When she gets back to her dorm, late on Wednesday, she calls Sam to let him know she made it, she’ll see him in class. He’s quiet and Jess doesn’t what that means. The next morning, he’s favoring his left shoulder and she frowns, seeing his raw knuckles and the split skin on his wrists. _Rough game_ , he says with a shrug, and turns to pay attention to the professor, ever the diligent student. Something about this isn’t right, something in his eyes, the way they’re skittering around the room, the way Sam tenses when one of the kids, Connor something, looks at him and smiles. He looks beat up, too, but then Sam’s hand bumps hers and his smile wipes her worries away. 

\--

_Tell me a story_ , she says, and it’s a long time before Sam says, _Two brothers once fought, and one of them left the other to die without looking back. It was a mistake, though_ , and when she asks why, Sam shakes his head and says, _Because it was. Nothing was meant to separate them._ She thinks, maybe, that she’s missed something, but when they make love, later, Sam’s hands cradle her face and he moves slow and gentle inside of her, and she wonders, seeing him smile, how she got to be so lucky. 

\--

Sam goes home with her for a few weeks between summer and fall session. Jess’ family loves him, of course, and her dad takes Sam fishing early one morning, a sure sign of approval. At dinner that night, they’re joined by Jess’ sister, her husband, and baby, a huge crowd around the table. The baby starts crying and doesn’t stop. Sam takes her out of the dining room, bouncing her in his arms, and within five minutes it’s quiet. Jess and her mom go to investigate and see Sam looking out of the window, holding the baby and talking to her, one of her hands curled in his shaggy hair as her face tilts towards his, listening intently. _And then the wizard picked up his staff and pointed it at the ghost,_ he’s murmuring, and Jess’ mom takes her back into the hallway, looks at her, and says, _Marry him_. Jess smiles and says, _I’m going to._

\--

_Tell me a story,_ she asks, and Sam looks up at her, sitting on the couch, from his position on the floor, cross-legged and surrounded by books and notes. _I can think of other things to do with my mouth,_ he replies, licks his lips, and ten minutes later, she’s shaking, muscles tense and mind falling apart. _Still want me to tell you a story?_ he asks, leaving Eskimo kisses over her inner thighs, and she wants to say that he has been, that this is their story, but she can’t talk, close to bursting. 

\--

Dean comes, and when Sam’s mysterious brother says, _Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days,_ she wonders if Sam really is the best storyteller she’s ever met. Then Sam tells her not to worry, that he’ll be back by Monday, that his dad’s probably drunk in the woods, and leaves, and Jess knows that Sam is. She believes him. 

\--

_Tell me a story,_ she says, silently, pleading with her eyes, but all Sam sees is her pain, her death. In his eyes, she reads the stories he never told her, written out in guilt and rage. As she bursts into flames, she wants to know how much of everything he told her was fiction and how much of it was truth.


End file.
